


gold rush (falling feels like flying till the bone crush)

by tambuli



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Incest, Not Canon Compliant, The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambuli/pseuds/tambuli
Summary: Twenty years after Rhaenyra Targaryen takes the Iron Throne, her youngest sister Viserra Targaryen lives the life she's always wanted: quiet, contented, full of medicine, research, and knowledge.But then, Crown Prince Aemon.
Relationships: Aemon Targaryen/Viserra Targaryen, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	gold rush (falling feels like flying till the bone crush)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Blacks, The Greens and The Reds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20702078) by [Loke_Lyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loke_Lyon/pseuds/Loke_Lyon). 



> I asked Leonie if I might play in her sandbox, and she kindly obliged. So here you go, everyone, a canon-what-canon timeline, following Viserra Targaryen twenty years post-Dance.
> 
> Note: this takes place in the universe of The Blacks, the Greens, and the Reds, and as such is a fanfiction of a fanfiction.

An achingly familiar, beloved, sardonic voice says, “So, has Rhaenyra managed to get dragon blood into every Great House in Westeros, or not quite yet?” 

Viserra yelps, and spins around so quickly the movement nearly dislodges her eye glasses. “Aemond! You’re home!”

Viserra’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, grins at her, his Valyrian hair bleached almost white and his skin deeply tanned. He is dressed in the Tyroshi fashion, all bold colorful fabrics, not the comparatively subdued Targaryen red and black. 

“Sister,” he says, purple eyes crinkling at the corners. Viserra can feel joy bubbling up in her heart at the sight of it. “Little princess of peace. Yes, I have.”

Viserra's mouth forms into a scowl, as if she were two-and-ten and not two-and-thirty. “Brother, please,” she says, only half-teasing. “You know I  _ hate  _ that name. I prefer maid of medicine. Or even mad maiden maester, if you must.”

“Now, little sister,” Helaena says, coming up beside Aemond. She’s gorgeous, even more gorgeous than she was when they left for the Free Cities, and even more outlandishly dressed than Aemond. Her dress is a riot of blues, purples, and pinks, and her silver-gold hair has a single streak of purple dyed into it, perfectly matching the color of her own eyes. But more than her sun-kissed loveliness, there is a luminous glow to her that Viserra can only identify as happiness. “You are no madwoman. You are a genius and a visionary.”

Despite herself, Viserra flushes, and curses herself. On her sisters, or her mother, embarrassment would show as a charming, lovely rose blush. On her, it would be a splotchy, blotchy red. 

“Thank you, Helaena,” she says, and hopes her voice does not wobble. “Does Rhaenyra know you are home?”

“Not quite yet,” Helaena says, leaning into Aemond’s side. He wraps an arm around her waist absently. “But we sent a runner to inform her, and—”

“Helaena! Aemond!” 

“She knows now,” Aemond says.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms does not quite run to meet her siblings, for it is her nameday feast and she is dressed in the most impractical of dresses. But she sets a  _ very  _ brisk pace as she rushes to embrace first Helaena, and then Aemond. “You didn’t send word ahead!”

Helaena taps her nose. “In truth, sister, we did. We just, ah…ensured the news would not reach you.”

“ _ Joffrey, _ ” Rhaenyra growls.

“Aemon, actually,” Helaena says. “He said it would be a lovely nameday gift for his mother.”

Rhaenyra’s smile grows ever wider, and though Viserra should be used to Rhaenyra’s beauty by now, she is still struck by the glow of it.

Rhaenyra in her fifth decade is just as beautiful as she was in her second, if softer and rounder than she used to be. Her hair is still in the plait she's worn as long as Viserra can remember, and the hair in it is still brilliantly silver-gold, not a trace of white to be seen. Queen Alysanne's crown rests on her graceful head, a marker of who she is. When she shifts, her queenly gown skims over curves Viserra never had. 

Her plait coils around the side of her neck, disguising the scar Viserra knows is there. It starts at her scalp and ends at her shoulder, an angry gash from Caraxes’s punishing claws when Rhaenyra dived to save Rhaekar and Helaena. 

Rhaenyra hates it; she asked Gerardys, and later Viserra, for a poultice to fade the angry red scar. They had provided, and the scar is faint now, but Viserra sees the way her sister styles her hair to always hide it. She’s always wanted to say:  _ Don’t, sister, it is a mark of pride, it makes you even lovelier,  _ but she’s never had the courage.

(Viserra remembers being a child, seeing her older sister in the splendor of her beauty, and thinking  _ If Rhaenyra is a monster who will kill me and Daeron and mother, then how is she so beautiful? How is that allowed? _ )

The Realm’s Delight, indeed. Although Viserra has heard whispers that pass the name on to Laena Martell, fourth child of Princess Aliandra of Dorne, or to Jaenys Arryn, third child and only daughter of Osgood and Alyssa Arryn.

Rhaenyra and Helaena link arms as they walk back into the feasting hall, pale heads bending together as the two long-lost sisters chatter away, leaving Viserra with Aemond. She’s left oddly bereft, but then Aemond offers his arm to her, and then her heart is lighter.

“You never did answer, little sister,” Aemond says. “Has Rhaenyra managed to get dragon blood into every Great House, or no?”

“Not yet, brother,” Viserra answers. “The Tyrells and Tullys remain, but there are a lot of grandchildren to go around. Mayhap one of them will pluck a rose or catch a fish.”

Aemond barks out a laugh. “And you, Viserra? Has your heart been caught?”

“I am the  _ maid  _ of medicine for a reason, Aemond.”

She hopes to the gods both old and new, and the Fourteen Flames as well, that just once her complexion would not betray her.

Aemond hums. “Truly? I’m only concerned for you, Viserra. You are a princess, and Rhaenyra would never let you come to harm, but Rhaenyra will not live forever…”

“Longer than most, if I can help it,” Viserra vows. “And Aemon will not throw me out on the streets of King’s Landing, brother, do not worry. In fact he asks me very often not to risk myself in the hospitals so much.”

“ _ Aemon does _ , hmm?” Aemond says, glancing at her slyly from the corner of his eyes. Viserra feels herself go red. “And our dear nephew, how is  _ he  _ doing?”

“He’s doing well,” Viserra says, willing herself to keep an unconcerned voice and even skin tone. “He is Hand of the Queen, as you know. He is going to be a good king, when the time comes.”

She feels Aemond inhale beside her, then exhale slowly. She curses herself: why bring up kingship in front of Aemond, who loved dear dead Aegon so deeply? 

“And the children?” Aemond continues, after an awkward beat. “His children?”

Viserra smiles as she thinks of Rhaenar, Laenyra, and Orys. “Doing well also. Last gathering, I believe Laena Martell spent the entire time trying to catch Rhaenar’s attention. I’m not certain Rhaenar even noticed.”

“At least Rhaenyra cannot object to that match,” Aemond muses, as they turn into the feasting hall and the roar of Rhaenyra’s nameday feast greets them. Viserra almost draws back at the sheer noise. “Their relation is more distant than most Targaryen marriages.” He pauses. “It’s a shame Rhaenyra dislikes close relatives marrying.”

A lump grows in Viserra’s throat. “I know, brother.” A breath hisses through her lips. “I know.” 

They arrive at the table, where Rhaenyra is embracing her son, thanking and haranguing him in the same breath for the surprise of Helaena and Aemond’s visit. Aemon is a beautiful shade of pink, delighted by his mother’s delight. Viserra feels her heart ache: all Rhaenyra’s children adore her, and Rhaenyra adores them in turn. 

What would have that been like? To have Rhaenyra Targaryen, instead of Alicent Hightower, as a mother?

Useless thoughts. She is in her third decade. Alicent Hightower has long been in the ground.

“Mama, please,” Aemon says finally, extracting himself from his mother’s embrace. His hair is mussed from where his circlet has fallen askew. “I’m sure Aunt Helaena and Uncle Aemond must be hungry. Come, we’ve set aside places for you.”

“Ah, so that’s why there were extra seats!” Rhaenyra exclaims, and Aemon laughs again at his mother’s indignation. 

Viserra can’t help but smile at the sight, and Aemon looks up at just the right moment. Their eyes catch, and a spark of longing flares in Viserra’s gut.

Aemon’s eyes hold hers, and the look in his eyes can only be described as  _ yearning _ . Viserra should look away. She should look away, just like she should have looked away all the other times, because this—this whatever it is that is between her and her nephew, it is nothing Rhaenyra would countenance. More than that, it is nothing that Westeros would approve of. 

And Viserra has not worked the past two decades, learning every scrap of medical knowledge she could get, traveling every single kingdom to apply said knowledge, hoping that this service by a Targaryen princess would be enough to heal the wounds left by a Targaryen war, only to destabilize Westeros again.

But still: Aemon does not look away, and neither does she.

It is Rhaenar, Aemon’s eldest, who breaks the stalemate. “Aunt Viserra,” he says, and Viserra turns. “Sit by me and Laenyra and Orys?”

“Of course,” she says faintly, and lets herself be led towards the Red Keep’s three storms.

Rhaenar and Laenyra, Aemon and Maris’s two eldest, are not twins, but they could very well be. Rhaenar wears his dark hair plaited, in the style of his grandmother, which used to raise eyebrows until he trounced all naysayers in the practice yard. He was broad and tall for his age—Baratheon heritage on both sides, she was told—with indigo eyes that often sparkled with mirth and mischief.

Aemon had once told Viserra, “We used to have quiet moments in the Red Keep, even after Rhaenar’s birth. Not a lot, but enough. And then Laenyra was born, and we never had a quiet moment ever again.”

Laenyra is her brother wrought female; the same coloring, the same height, and the same breadth of body. Laenyra Targaryen was not a slim, slender, silent princess; she roared with storm-fury and played even more pranks than her older brother. Viserra had heard Aemon teasingly lament to his mother, “Mama, you should have warned me what a Targaryen and a Baratheon would be. Hers is the firestorm.”

To which Rhaenyra had replied, “You  _ have  _ met your grandmother Rhaenys, yes?”

The last and youngest, Orys, looked much the same as his older siblings, but he was sly like a riptide and silent as a shadow. Viserra privately thought that if Rhaenar hadn’t already promised the position of Hand of the King to his brother, Orys would have made a good Master of Whispers. 

“The eavesdropping is from Aemon,” Rhaenyra had told Viserra once, smiling. “Don’t ever let him tell you otherwise.” 

It was Orys’s slightly terrifying gaze that Viserra feels on her, as she drops into a seat between Laenyra and Orys. Laenyra immediately rests her head on Viserra’s shoulder. 

“It’s a grand feast, isn’t it Aunt Vis?” Rhaenar says brightly. 

“The food is wonderful and the mummers are excellent!” Laenyra concurs.

“A very grand feast,” Orys says, gazing at Viserra with solemn indigo eyes. “Father worked very hard to make it perfect.”

His tone is exceedingly significant, but Viserra cannot understand.

“Aemon loves Rhaenyra deeply,” is all she can think to say.

“I believe,” Orys says, holding Viserra’s gaze, “that there is a specific reason Father wanted to butter Grandmother up so much.”

“W-what do you mean?” she asks faintly.

The moment stretches on and on and on, and then Rhaenar yelps.

“Ow! Orys!”

“ _ Your cue, _ ” Orys hisses.

“Oh—oh, right!”

“Blockhead!” 

“Ugh, never mind,  _ I’ll  _ do it,” Laenyra says, throwing a disgusted look at her brothers. She takes Viserra’s hand and holds it, tracing the cuts left by mishandling scalpels and the short, unpainted nails. “Aunt Viserra. You know we love you, right?”

“Of…course,” Viserra says.

“And we loved mother dearly,” Laenyra continues. “And no one will ever replace her.”

“I know,” Viserra says, a lump in her throat.

“But it doesn’t mean,” Rhaenar says, joining in, “that we can’t love someone else as well as her.”

“And while Father already has heirs,” Orys says, taking up Viserra’s other hand, “I’ve always wanted another sister.”

Rhaenar beams at them all, a laughing storm in truth, and Viserra’s heart begins to race.

“W-what—”

“We  _ love  _ you, Aunt Viserra,” Rhaenar says. “That’s all we wanted to say, really.”

Viserra looks at the three not-quite-children anymore, smiling at her and holding her hands, and against her will she remembers...

**

There were three little dark heads, huddled beside Princess Maris's bed, crying.

"Mama, please," Rhaenar cried. Some of his long dark hair stuck to his cheeks. He didn't even seem to notice. "Fight it, mama. Don't go."

"You're a Baratheon, mama," Laenyra added, swiping at her eyes. "Winter fever can't do anything to you. Yours is the fury."

"Don't be dumb," Orys countered his sister. His hands gripped his mother's tightly. "What can getting mad do? What you need to do, mama, is to follow everything Princess Viserra says...go out into the sun, mama, maybe the sun will kill the winter..."

"Shut up Orys! It's storming outside!"

Princess Maris laughed, a hoarse choking thing. "I'm so sorry, children," she whispered. Gone was the famous acidity of her tongue, faced with her mortality and her three children. "I love you so much. I wish...I wish I could embrace you..."

Viserra stood beside Princess Maris's bed, hair roughly braided back and in her loose healer’s robes. She felt horribly impotent. It was the seventh day of Maris's winter fever, which should have been promising; all others who had contracted the disease died within four days. 

But Princess Maris's fever simply would not break. Her temperature fluctuated, lower then higher then lower again, but it never went down to the proper temperature of a human being. Princess Maris had been burning hot as a dragon for a week now.

When the winter fever had broken throughout the Seven Kingdoms, Viserra had been in Dragonstone’s hospital, frantically researching the disease and attending to the gravely ill. None of the royal family had been on the island at the time, so when the orderlies came saying Vermax had been sighted, her heart had leaped to her throat.

Crown Prince Aemon had descended, and Viserra’s heart beat double then triple time. He looked haggard; his hair seemed to have gone unwashed, and golden stubble graced a too-pale chin.

“Aunt Viserra,” he’d greeted, and Viserra said, heedless of courtesies, “Is the family all right? Rhaenyra, the children—?”

“No, no, it’s not them,” Aemon said, running his hands through his hair and nearly dislodging his circlet. “Aunt Viserra, it’s Maris. Will you come?”

“Of course,” she’d said, and that very day she and Aemon rode back to King’s Landing.

For six days, Viserra had battled with Princess Maris's fever, scrounging up every scrap of medical knowledge she had. Penicillin had been tried, and she credited it for Princess Maris's continued survival, but it simply was not enough. She was out of ideas, and could only give palliative care and try to strengthen Princess Maris's constitution, in hopes the legendary strength of the Baratheons would see her through.

"What if I put Horizon in bed with you, mama?" Orys offered. "Would it help? He's a dragon and he's magic, and you said you were so cold. Maybe he can warm you up."

Princess Maris laughed weakly. "It's all right, Orys," she said, "keep Horizon. You and Rhaenar and Laenyra should sleep with Horizon though, just in case. I don't want you to get the winter fever."

"We sleep in papa's bed all together," Rhaenar said. "If we're all together, the winter fever can't get us."

"You have to get well, mama," Laenyra insisted. "Rhaenar is going to claim his dragon soon, and then me later, and you have to be there for it, you just have to."

"That's... that's a good thought," Princess Maris whispered. "I would love to see that. Children, would you give me a moment with Princess Viserra?" The children obliged, leaving the room.

"Yes, princess?" Viserra said, coming closer and kneeling at her bedside.

Princess Maris lowered her voice. "I don't want the children to be here when I..." She let her voice trail off, and Viserra nodded in understanding. "But Aemon..."

"I will have Aemon fetched," Viserra said immediately. 

Princess Maris clutched her hand, and it was only through years of experience with dragons that Viserra didn't startle at the heat. "Thank you, Viserra. At least you gave me three days more than the rest ever had."

"It wasn't enough," Viserra whispered. "I would give you a lifetime if I could."

"Yes," Princess Maris said. "It would have been much to my liking if you'd managed to save my life, too. Unfortunately, we don't get what we want."

"No, no, princess, we still might beat this." Viserra stood up, and went over to the fruit bowl. "Here, eat some oranges. It's been proven that eating fruit can ward off diseases..."

Princess Maris smiled bitterly, not saying anything, and Viserra subsided, calling for a servant to get Aemon.

Aemon came into the room, and against her will Viserra's heart fluttered. She quelled it fiercely, and scrutinized her nephew. 

Dark circles beneath his (beautiful, endless) eyes. Hair in disarray. Rumpled tunic and leggings, not his usual fare as crown prince, but these were not usual times. He'd been working, then. Probably with his mother, figuring out a way to stop the fever from rampaging through King's Landing. Last Viserra heard, they'd at least managed to save more people. Now only one in four were dying, not three in four. 

She'd be out there on the streets herself, or on Dragonstone in her laboratory, but when family called...

"Maris," he said brokenly. Then he saw her, and said, "Aunt Viserra." Her heart fluttered again, and Viserra cursed herself.

"Aemon." It sounded like Maris was struggling for air. "Do you remember...when the children were born. You sat at my side and held my hand for every single birth."

Aemon sank to his knees beside his wife, and took her hand.

"You wanted twins so much," he recalled.

"All your married siblings have twins. You're the crown prince, you should have a set too." She attempted a laugh.

“I'm perfectly happy with our three," Aemon said, brushing a kiss on her hand.

Princess Maris shivered.

"Hold my hand through it?" she asked, teeth chattering.

"Of course," Aemon said.

Viserra bit her lip, debating with herself whether to break the moment, and then said, "Princess Maris, please. You could still survive this. If you give up hope now, then your body will follow suit. You must keep fighting." Feeling foolish, she added, "Yours is the fury."

Princess Maris said, with a trace of her famed acid tongue, "Every storm dies, Princess Viserra. You, a woman of science, would know that." A labored breath, and then, "Would you be so kind as to leave us?"

Viserra flushed blotchily at the reprimand. She nodded once, and fled.

She left behind her a dark-haired princess, lying ill beneath a mountain of quilts, and her husband who was as beautiful as a song, holding her hand and murmuring reassurances.

Viserra washed her hands, then sat on a chair outside Princess Maris's bedroom. Then she stood up to pace. Then she sat down again. It could have been hours. It could have been minutes. It could have been years until Aemon opened the door, tears trickling slowly down his cheeks. He looked at her and nodded once. 

Viserra let out a choked breath.

"I'm so sorry, Aemon," she whispered.

Aemon dashed his tears away from his eyes, in a gesture much like Laenyra earlier. 

"I don't know what to do, Aunt Viserra," he whispers, too honest. "I just don't know what to do."

Viserra stepped forward and, feeling very very foolish, opened her arms for a hug.

(Is this right? Is this how you do it? Aemond used to do this for her when she was younger—)

Aemon stepped forward, so much taller and broader than she, and embraced her. He turned his face into her shoulder, and she felt his tears soak through her skin. He began to shake.

"Shh," Viserra whispered, hugging him tighter. "It's going to be all right."  _ What a stupid thing to say!  _ "You'll make it through this, you all will, we all will..."  _ Still dumb. _ "The family is here. The family will support you."  _ Better _ . "We'll help. We'll take care of all of you. It will be all right."

Aemon drew back, hollowed cheeks wet with tears, and he attempted to smile. 

"Thank you, Aunt Viserra," he whispered. Viserra raised her hand and wiped away the tear tracks.

"Call me Viserra," she said.

**

Rhaenyra’s nameday feast stretches on, and eventually the dancing begins. Viserra excuses herself, unwilling to brave the dance floor where Alyssa Arryn, Aliandra Martell, and Lucerys Martell are so ably exhibiting their talent. 

They have made a paired dance into a trio dance, and none of them ever missed a step. Viserra can only applaud their skill.

And while she loves her siblings, she also does not particularly want to join Helaena, Aemond, and Rhaenyra where they are swapping tales of their now-grown children; nor does she want to watch over Rhaenyra’s gaggle of grandchildren.

Although she does notice that Rhaenar is looking at Laena Martell like he’s been electrified, and Laenora Reyne and Joffrey Penrose are speaking to each other far too intimately, heads bent together and hands too close.

Viserra steps out into a side corridor, leaning back against the wall and finally having a moment to herself.

“Vis,” a familiar voice says, and Viserra whirls.

“Aemon!”

“Hi,” he says, smiling at her. He is radiant today, but he is radiant every day. He is not in black, but the purple of his clothes is so deep it mimics the color. The hems are threaded with silver, an understated reference to his Velaryon heritage. Viserra’s heart races.

“Hi,” she echoes dumbly.

“You look beautiful today,” Aemon says. “I didn’t get the chance to say so earlier.”

“I—” Viserra looks down at herself. She’s wearing a black gown hemmed with rubies, nothing ostentatious and nothing to what the other women in court wore. Certainly, nothing to Rhaenyra or Helaena. “Thank you?”

Aemon looks at her, opens his mouth, closes it, and then runs his fingers through his silver-gold hair, knocking his circlet askew. Viserra’s hand is reaching out before she can help herself, and they catch the circlet together.

“Sorry,” Aemon says, and places his circlet back into place. “I just—this isn’t easy, Vis.” He laughs, almost rueful. “I guess…I guess I’ll just ask. Even if a corridor’s not an ideal place to ask. Do you remember what we talked about, before?”

Viserra’s eyes go wide. “When—when Lucerys sent the Dornish red and—”

“Yes. Yes, that,” Aemon says hastily. “I wanted to know if…if you still felt the same way?”

Viserra’s heart seizes up. Suddenly, the air in the corridor is too warm, and she longs to press herself against the cool stone wall. There is so much space between him and her. She doesn’t  _ want  _ there to be so much space between him and her. 

Mutely, she nods.

Aemon’s eyes light up, and he looks almost like a boy again. “Truly?” he asks, breathless. “You still—”

“Y-yes. Yes,” Viserra stammers, and then, all in a rush, “But Rhaenyra would never—”

“Leave it to me to talk mama around,” Aemon says, still grinning widely. “There will be a private, family-only get together later, in mama’s rooms; please come, Vis.”

Family only of course including the Velaryons. Perhaps even Aliandra Martell. Viserra steels herself.

“Of course,” Viserra says again.

**

The Targaryens and Velaryons gather in Rhaenyra’s rooms, although the grandchildren had been bundled off to bed or otherwise sent away to find their own entertainment. 

“Mama,” Viserra hears Aemon say, and she turns to the crown prince almost on instinct. She sees him bend toward his seated mother, and murmur in her ear. Rhaenyra looks confused, and then she gets up and disappears with Aemon into an adjoining room.

The chatter of the room continues on, and Viserra does as she always does, and sits on the sidelines, watching her family.

Laena Velaryon leans on the side of Rhaenyra’s chair, smiling at their brood; her husband Joffrey Velaryon sits nearby, his daughter Rhaena Stark beside him. Laenor Velaryon stands beside Jocelyn Reyne, who is telling him all about her twins Rupert and Ronan’s martial training. Lucerys Martell is there with Aliandra Martell, Alyssa Arryn giggling in the middle of them both. Aemma Penrose is talking excitedly with Aemond and Helaena, pencil in hand as she jots down notes of their Tyroshi experience.

Viserys Velaryon, Rhaenyra’s youngest, is stealing shy glances at purple-haired Vaella Targaryen, who is holding hands with a green-haired Rhaekar Targaryen. Both of them look completely overwhelmed.

There are entirely too many people in this room for Viserra’s comfort. But in truth, she prefers this large, crowded family to the quiet rooms of her childhood with only Daeron for company, or sometimes mother and father’s screaming fights.

What would it have been like, to grow up as these Targaryen-Velaryons had? This happy brood, who are now flinging pillows around and smacking each other in merriment, not rage? Viserra is under no illusions: Alicent Hightower would never have permitted her youngest daughter to remain unmarried, or to pursue medicine. Aegon would not have been sympathetic, either; he’d have sold her hand to a Florent if it meant their support. 

But Rhaenyra had taken the throne, and told her littlest sister that she need not marry if she never wished to. And she hadn’t wished to. Aemond had been right all those years ago when he had told her:  _ Trust Rhaenyra. I know it’s strange, but trust Rhaenyra before you trust mother.  _

It’s been more than a dozen years since Viserra had flung all of mother’s teachings out the door and thrown herself and her family on Rhaenyra’s mercy, but she doesn’t regret following her brother’s advice. 

She only wishes she’d done it sooner, before Daeron…

Rhaenyra and Aemon emerge from the other room, Aemon’s face lit up with such delight that he looks like a star given skin. Viserra’s heart begins to thud in her ears. Rhaenyra herself looks…conflicted, but not angry.

The Queen on the Iron Throne strides to the middle of the room, the mantle of queenship almost visible around her, and everyone quiets.

“Everyone,” she starts, and looks around at all of them. “Dearest family. Today, on my nameday, my eldest son asked a boon of me.”

Aemond and Helaena sit up straighter. Aemma Penrose sends a questioning look at Aemon.

“He asked me,” Rhaenyra continues, “if he might wed again.”

Gasps all around, “I knew it!” and furious shushing.

“And I aim to permit it,” she says, and Viserra’s blood roars in her ears. “If the princess in question will agree to it.”

“ _ Princess? _ ” one of the Targaryen-Velaryons hisses in shock.

Rhaenyra nods to Aemon, who steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Viserra. She feels herself beginning to tremble.

“Viserra. Vis. Princess Viserra Targaryen,” Aemon says. “Would you grant me the absolute honor of becoming your husband, and become Princess Viserra Targaryen twice over?”

Viserra laughs through her suddenly choked-up throat. The room is in a breathless silence. From her peripheral vision, she can see Helaena and Rhaenyra clutching hands. Aemond is beaming.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, Aemon, yes.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [walk past, quick brush, i don't like slow motion vision in rose blush](https://open.spotify.com/track/5BK0uqwY9DNfZ630STAEaq)


End file.
